


Undefeated

by NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable



Series: Undefeated [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Beating, Blood, Pain, Psychological Torture, Stabbing, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6492559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable/pseuds/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks around as he sits, trying to figure out where he is.  He’s in a cell of some kind, that much is abundantly clear.  They all look the same in his experience - small, empty, bars across one side, though the actual details vary from each imprisonment he’s had the pleasure of serving in his centuries.  Killian meets Hades in the Underworld just after his death.  Canon speculation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knock Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains graphic depictions of violence, torture - both physical and psychological, blood, and more violence. You have been warned.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. Just my imagination borrowing them for a bit.

He wakes on smooth stone, cool under his cheek, replacing the sensation of tears and golden hair spread across his skin, the last memory he has of life.

He looks around as he sits, trying to figure out where he is.  He’s in a cell of some kind, that much is abundantly clear.  They all look the same in his experience - small, empty, bars across one side, though the actual details vary from each imprisonment he’s had the pleasure of serving in his centuries.

All the memories from his death assault him at once just them, the vivid pictures flashing suddenly behind his eyes.

_the marks on her family’s wrists, condemning them to death_

_her face, Nimue choking the life that can’t be stolen_

_gathering the darkness and handing her the sword_

_preparing himself for the bite of it, the pain much worse than anything he could have imagined_

_her face and - oh gods - her tears_

_her touch, holding him as he collapses against her_

_life draining from every part of him and then gone all at once_

He’s gasping, the memories choking him with the intensity of it, and he wonders if a heart torn in two can be broken further.

_Emma_.

He thought death would be something different, something less solid than the hard floor and sharp stones against his back.  Perhaps this is a stop on the way to his eternity, a place of atonement, to make up for all the wrongs he so clearly remembers, and that’s just the last few days.

He asked for this, he begged her for this, his penance for a life poorly lived, but now that he’s here, he’s damn well not spending his death sitting still and _waiting_ in some brig.  He stands, heading toward the door.

Whatever entity has him imprisoned has seen fit to leave him his hook but change his attire, clothing he’s never worn before covering his body, though it’s similar to what he has slowly gotten used to in his time with her.

_Emma_.

Just the thought of her leaves him reeling, and he catches himself on the bars across the entrance, leaning his forehead against the cold metal.  He thought he could do this, end himself to save them all, but _bloody hell_ , he misses her with a fierceness that burns through his dead limbs.

He takes a shaky breath, wondering for a moment why a deceased soul needs to breathe, but finding comfort in the familiarity nonetheless.

He straightens and gets to work on the door.  There’s no lock he can see, nothing to pick or smash with his hook, the thick bars seamlessly moulded into the carved stone at the ceiling and floor.

_Damn_.

But he grins anyway, remembering the words he’d told her lifetimes ago, when everything was simpler and he was less dead.

_I love a challenge_.

He begins to trace his way around the cell, walking slowly to examine each stone, searching for weakness or another method of escape.  He might deserve to be here, but he hates the inaction of waiting in a cell for some unknown jailor to descend at will.   _Let him come to me_ , he thinks with a smirk.

A noise behind him startles him from his circuit around the room, and he spins toward the entrance.  A man stands in the doorway dressed in a suit, complete with fashionable tie and polished shoes and looking vastly out of place amid the dank decor.  A larger man stands beside him - familiar, though Killian can’t place from where.  The bars, so solid a few minutes ago, are completely gone as if they never were.

“What the hell?” he mutters quietly.

“How… apt,” the newcomer says with a grin, his voice clipped, elegant, refined.

“So this is hell then?” Killian asks, raising an eyebrow.

The man steps closer almost lazily, confidence oozing from his every move.  “Not quite, but you’re not exactly _wrong_ either.”

“I suppose I’m meant to ask who you are and then beg for mercy?”  He doesn’t mean for his tone to come out quite as biting as it does, but what value is there to holding his tongue here?  He’s dead, he deserves the right to stop playing games with monsters who claim to hold power over him.  What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Allow me to spare you the trouble,” the man replies, offering a short bow.  “Hades, at your service.”

_Ah, yes_.   _Another god.  How wonderful._

“This is the Underworld.”

Another bow from the god.  “In the flesh, so to speak.”

_Enough talking_.

“Why am I here?” Killian asks, hoping to get to the point so he can resume his escape attempt.  Not that he has any idea what he’s escaping _to_ , dead and forgotten souls probably populating this land for miles around.  For a moment, he allows a glimmer of hope to light in his heart, perhaps there’s someone here he knows, family he’s left behind all those-

He chases away the thoughts with a forceful shake of his head.  Impossible.  Liam wouldn’t be in this state of limbo, not with the heroic life he lived.  And Milah… well, he could only hope she would have moved on long ago, finally reunited with her boy .  There should be no one here for him, no one until _she_ joins him, eventually, hopefully not for a very long while.

Regardless, the urge to flee from captivity is one not easily reasoned with, and he itches to do something, to _move_ , despite the presence of the lord before him.

“That’s complicated,” Hades replies, “and on a need-to-know basis.  Let’s start with a job offer, shall we?”

A _what_?

His confusion must show, because Hades is already answering his unasked question.

“You’ve been very kind to me over the years, Captain,” he says as he strolls slowly around the small space.  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting many of the souls you’ve dispatched here and, I must say, I’m impressed with your… stamina.  You had good thing going there for a few centuries, far longer than most of the villains I’ve encountered, even the magical ones.”

“What’s your point?” Killian asks through a clenched jaw.

“Ah, direct.  I love that about you.”  Hades grins, a frightful look, but Killian is done with fear, now.  “I’d like to continue that partnership for a bit longer.  See, in the end there, you kind of _slacked off_.  Joined up with the heroes, made a turn toward the side of all that is good and, let’s be honest, _boring_.  I’ll agree to send you back up there for, I don’t know, a hundred more years, in exchange for triple that in souls by the term’s end?”

Back up there, back to life, to _her…_  He can’t control the leap of hope that starts in his heart at the thought of seeing her again, being with her, _alive_.

But at what cost?

He shakes his head firmly.  “I’m not doing it.”

Hades wags a finger at him as he approaches, his grin now leaning more toward dangerous than mirth.  “I knew there was a catch with you,” he says.  “Defiant as always, Captain.  Can’t say I appreciate the attitude, but it’s not altogether unexpected.”

He’s close, now, his face inches from Killian’s as his eyes darken and the smile slips from his face.

“You have hundreds of years of experience being a pirate, and still you choose the novice career of hero, Captain,” he says, his voice low and threatening.  “ _No one_ defies me, Captain.  Not even a legend.”

Strong hands grab his arms just above the elbows and he’s pulled back with a gasp as Hades steps back, his easily confident smile back in place.   _The other man_ , he remembers wildly, struggling in the iron grip.  He kicks backward, striking the other in the shin, but the tight hold on his arms doesn’t weaken in the slightest.  Moving fast, he snaps his head back violently, cracking the other man in the nose as stars burst painfully behind his eyes, and his arms are released.  He stumbles as he steps away but doesn’t fall, turning quickly to meet his attacker.

Not fast enough.  The other man’s fist _slams_ into his eye, sending him reeling backward into the wall.  His vision blurs and he can almost feel the swollen beginnings of a bruise forming on the left side of his face.

Before he can recover, another beefy fist crashes into his gut, forcing out his breath as he doubles over.  He staggers, the wall not enough to hold him up anymore.  A knee follows the fist to his stomach and he falls to the floor, wheezing slightly.  He wonders again about the nature of breathing in this realm of the dead, but he doesn’t dare stop trying to pull in the air his body seems to crave.

He sees the fist coming, aimed directly at his head, and he ducks underneath it, satisfied at the sound of bone and skin against cold, hard stone as he spins away.  But the large man doesn’t make a sound, just pulls back his hand to try again, Killian barely able to stand as he faces him.

“I’ve fought ogres scarier than you,” he taunts, feeling the crazed grin that creeps across his face, pulling his lips back in a snarl.  “Is that the best you’ve got?”

The man advances, but Killian is ready, his fist hitting the other’s abdomen with a force that… does nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  The large man barely slows at the punch as he swings his hand once again toward his head.  Killian lashes out and grabs the other man’s wrist, spinning his arm to the side as he jabs forward with his hook, slicing it across the other’s chest.  Blood, bright and red, springs from the fresh wound, but the man comes closer still, his huge fists aimed at his face.

He’s tiring, he can feel it, he can feel the sweat on his skin along with the slow trickle of blood on his cheek from the first punch, his quickly swelling eye beginning to block all sight on that side.  He’s tiring, and he’s _dead_ , and he can’t figure out the rules of this obvious game he’s now stuck in.  It’s a game, it’s always a game, for those with the power to abuse others.  If he can just survive long enough, he might be able to determine how things work, and then attempt to undo them, as he’s always done.

_A mighty big ‘if’._

He dodges one punch but the second catches him at a glancing blow to the jaw, and he tastes the blood slowly filling his mouth from where his teeth break the skin inside his cheek.  He spits out what he can before turning back, but once again, he underestimates the large man’s speed.  A hand clenches around his throat, shoving him backward into the wall, the other hand joining the first as the man squeezes tighter.  His hook and hand claw uselessly at the man’s arms as he fights for air, it’s the farthest he can reach from where he’s pressed against the stone.  His efforts draw blood but the tight grip doesn’t waver.

He can’t breathe, can’t escape, he can only watch as the man lifts his knee, driving it again and again into his abdomen, his ribs screaming in agony though he cannot.  He wants to shout, to yell, to release the air the other man forces with each blow to his middle, but the fingers are strong against his throat, closing off all exits for his breath.  His vision begins to darken at the edges, and he’s prepared to welcome the unconsciousness that’s sure to come soon enough.  Tears fill his eyes, not of despair, but of frustration and pain and exertion.  Not that anyone there cares about the distinction, but it matters, to him.

The hands release his neck suddenly, tossing him roughly to the floor, and he can only crouch, gasping, as the black spots in his eyes begin to fade.  A foot slams into his stomach and he sprawls on his side, certain something’s fractured if not outright broken as he frantically pulls in all the air he can.  The large hands grab his jacket and pull him forward off the ground, one releasing to smash into his face - once, twice.  At the third blow he’s barely holding on to awareness anymore, his head lolling weakly.  His lip is split, skin broken in other places on his face, blood trickling from his mouth, his cheek, his forehead.

“Enough.”

One word from the god of the Underworld and the man releases his grip.  Killian falls to the ground, his head cracking hard on the unyielding stone.  His face feels puffy, distorted, his left eye swollen beyond sight, and his chest is sore and battered, each gasp for air shifting bruised ribs and muscles, his breaths coming too hard and too fast to make up for the many he’s lost in the other’s crushing grasp.

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome for a first visit, Captain,” Hades says as he kneels beside his good eye.  “But rest assured we’ll be back.  We do have _so much_ to talk about.”  He pats him on the shoulder and stands, walking to the doorway.

“Come, Claude,” he says to the large man at his side.  “You’ve done well.  You can come back and play with our new toy another time.”

Without another word, the two vanish, leaving Killian alone once more, the bars as solid across the former opening as if they were always there.

_Claude,_ he thinks, trying to remember, his memories the only thing he truly has anymore.   _Claude…_

He barks out a pained laugh, the motion jerking his bruised chest, but still he laughs.  Claude, the guard he killed in Regina’s castle and then carried to Wonderland all those years ago, the first step on his journey toward what he thought was revenge, toward death, but was actually toward _her_ , the one who’d given him life after so many centuries spent merely breathing.

_Emma_ , he thinks, and this time he smiles, his bloodied lip cracking further, fresh iron dripping into his mouth.

He can work on his escape later, once he’s had a chance to rest.

With her name as a prayer on his lips, he drifts into the darkness.


	2. Swing Left, Swing Right

He slowly blinks open his eyes, pulling hard as the left one refuses to open.  For a moment, he can’t remember why, can’t remember what happened, and then all at once, he does - Claude, Hades, the Underworld.

 _Right_.

He looks to the doorway, at the bars firmly in place across it, no hinges to indicate it’s even meant to be a door at all.  The corridor beyond it is dark, yet the cell is filled with a dim yellowish glow.  The light seems to come from nowhere at all - no windows to light the room and no torches to provide firelight, and yet it’s there still .

He’s alone now, and on his back, the same position he was when he passed out who knows how long ago.  His face hurts, his stomach is sore, his neck feels swollen from the larger man’s crushing grip, and he can only guess at the damage he can’t see, and how long it will last.   _Does one heal in the realm of the dead?_ he wonders.

He raises his hand to touch the left side of his face, prodding gently at the bruising and lacerations that he knows are there even without his fingers’ confirmation.  His fingertips come away bloody.

He can lie there, he knows.  He can wait for them to come to him.  They will be back, they said they would and he knows it was not an idle threat.  The only question is when.

He hates waiting.

“Get up, Killian,” he mutters to himself, glad his voice works despite the rawness of his throat.  “Get _up_!”

With a grunt, he manages to roll over quickly and come up onto his knees, ignoring the pain that flares as he moves.  He fights to catch his breath, hand and hook bracing himself on the stone floor.  

 _Damn, that hurts_.

He looks around the small cell, eyeing the area he’d been up to when scouting for escape earlier, before being interrupted by the lord of the Underworld.  “Back to work,” he says, and slowly gets to his feet.

He taps the stones with his hook as he moves around the remainder of the room, his fingers prying into the corners of the smooth rocks to give a quick shake.  Each brick is easily as wide as his shoulders, large enough to climb through should one be removed and passage found beyond, though none seem to be inclined to budge at first glance.  The mortar lining each is thick, worn with years - perhaps centuries - but no less strong than the day it was laid.

Except one.

In the far corner, farthest from the bars, a large, oblong stone wiggles slightly at his tug.  How large, how heavy, how it even moves, he doesn’t know, but it’s a start, it’s _something_.

With a grin, he sinks to the floor before the stone.   _Better to start on the side furthest from the door_ , he decides, and he raises his hook to the surrounding mortar.  Using his hand as a steadying leverage, he begins scraping away at the cement holding the stone in place.  It’s slow going, only the barest traces of dust falling away as he works, only one clear eye to help him aim the only tool he has, but it’s something to _do,_ instead of just waiting.

He’s barely left a mark when he hears faint footsteps approaching his cell.  Quickly, he wipes off his hook and brushes the small pile of dust into the shadows.  He slides across the wall to the other corner, settling in as if he had been there all along.

A moment later, Hades walks in, Claude just behind him as the bars shimmer and disappear as they step through them.   _Going to have to learn that trick_ , he thinks.

“Ah, company,” he says, a grin slipping into place despite the soreness of his face.  “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of tea.”

Hades smile matches his, but Claude is expressionless, and Killian can’t help but wonder if he’s even capable of feeling anything at all.  The thought chills him more than it should.

“You seem rested, Captain,” Hades says easily, mimicking Killian’s playful tone.  “Perhaps now is a good time to continue our earlier... _discussion_.”

At that, the large, silent man steps forward, heading straight toward him.  Killian can’t control the flash of fear that races through him, the bruises still aching from their last “discussion”, but he wills himself to be still, to see what will happen.  There’s a decided lack of malice in the former guard’s movements and, though his expression is as blank as always, it feels less threatening than their previous encounter.

Claude bends down and Killian can’t help flinching as the other man grabs handfuls of his jacket and hauls him roughly to his feet, seemingly without any effort at all.  Killian grunts quietly, the movement pulling at bruises he’d managed to ignore, as he reaches up, grasping the other man’s arms with his hook and his hand as he quickly gets his feet beneath him to support his own weight.  He expects a blow at any moment; he carefully measures the other’s stance, looking for a subtle shift in balance or hint as to where - or what - it’s going to be this time.

Nothing.  No sign of any impending fight.

Instead, Claude shoves him bodily against the wall before he’s managed to gain his balance, the stones pressing hard at his back.  In a flash, thick ropes snake from the seemingly-solid stones and wrap around him - his arms above and below the elbow, his chest, and his legs - holding him almost _too_ tightly against the smooth but unyielding rock.

Despite his frailty compared to the larger man, despite his helplessness at being so thoroughly restrained, he can’t help the bubbling anger that rises in his limbs just under his skin, a fierce burning of a very specific nature that he’s not felt in… well, not for quite some time.

 _Defiance_.

Not the simple contrarian nature Hades noticed earlier, though there definitely was an element of that.  No, this is the familiar fiery _hatred_ of being controlled, of being manipulated, of having someone hold all the cards and use them against him, something he’d experienced all too many times in his centuries of life.

He realises he has no intention of doing anything Hades asks of him, no intention of being _used_ as someone’s pawn.  Somewhere between his seated position and the vertical, tied-up one in which he now finds himself, he realises he’s already made his decision.

 _No one defies me, Captain_ , Hades had threatened before.  

 _No one, but me_ , he resolves.

“Rope?” Killian asks, raising an eyebrow.  “God of the Underworld, and you’re using simple shipping lines?”

Hades flashes him a grin.  “I wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable.”  He steps closer, a slight bounce in his step as he approaches.  The rage in Killian makes it hard to feel any semblance of fear, and he’s glad.  Fear makes him weak, and he needs all the strength he can manage if he’s to face this mythological lord and emerge intact.

“So,” Hades begins, glancing up and down Killian’s restrained form, “have you considered my offer at all?”

Killian fixes a thoughtful expression on his face and shrugs - well, as much of a shrug as possible, under the circumstances.  “No, can’t say that I have.”

The god doesn’t frown, doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, and yet Killian knows, he _knows_ , that he’s starting to anger.

“It’s to your benefit, Captain.  You’d get to be alive again, set some kind of new record on years spent as a pirate or what have you.  You’d get your ship back, maybe even with Emma-”

Sudden fury _explodes_ behind Killian’s eyes.  “You _don’t_ get to say her name to me!” he growls, pulling against the ropes yet moving no closer.  He can endure torture, he has before.  He can endure pain and endless torment, but only if _she’s_ allowed to stay with him, even if only in his memory.  He’d be damned - more literally than not, probably - if he allows anyone, even Hades himself, to tarnish those memories.

Hades lips twitch, the beginning of a grin at the corners of his mouth, and Killian feels the leaden weight of fear settling in his gut.  

He’s revealed too much.

“My my, Captain.  Quite the temper,” tsks Hades, raising his hands in mock surrender.  “I’ll refrain from mentioning your... _former_ lover, if that makes you happy.”  Killian bites back the rest of his anger, holding onto it and allowing to coat the fear that crept in unbidden, clenching his jaw tightly as he flashes his eye furiously at the other man.  “But, you have to admit, it’s a pretty great arrangement, for both of us.”

Killian swallows hard, the remains of his rage seething just below the surface, but he can’t risk another outburst.  He has no idea why he’s really here.  Surely the god of the Underworld doesn’t really need _him_ to collect more souls - villains of all kinds are no doubt already bringing in the spoils of the wars they wage on their hapless victims.  But he’ll play the game for now, belligerent pirate to master of this realm, if only to determine the true endgame.

“I’m not doing it,” he says, repeating his words from before.

Hades narrows his eyes at him, studying him for a moment.

“Are you _trying_ to anger me, Captain?” he asks.  “Because, let me assure you, you do _not_ want to see me angry.”

He should be afraid.  Every sensible part of him _screams_ at him to be afraid, of this magic-wielding literal _god_.  And yet, all Killian feels is the barely-contained anger he’s managed to drown beneath the strength of practised defiance.

“I’ve crossed a lot of people over the years,” he says evenly.  “You’re hardly the first.”

A wide grin stretches across the god’s face, but Killian can see the threat behind the smile.  

“Ah, but I can guarantee you, I _will_ be the last.”

With one swift move, Hades reaches out and grabs onto the hook attached to Killian’s arm, twisting it deftly until it detaches with a click.  He raises it in front of his eyes, allowing the silver to shine in the low light permeating the room.

“Still keeping it sharp, eh?” he says appreciatively.  “I guess it’s as good a time as any to test it out.”

Before Killian can react or properly prepare himself, Hades slashes the hook across his collarbone, slicing through his shirt and into the skin below.  Killian closes his eyes tightly against the sharp flash of pain, grunting deeply in his throat, hot blood already spilling from the wound and down his chest.  He allows himself the one noise, the only sound he’ll let himself make no matter what tortures Hades comes up with.

“Yes,” smiles Hades at the now-bloodied hook, “this will do quite nicely.”

He leans closer to Killian, his face inches away, and says, “As I told you before, Captain.  No one defies me.”

Killian only grins, the pain from the fresh cut already dulling to an aching throb in the background.  “Then I guess I’ll be _your_ first.”

He doesn’t see Hades hand move this time, just feels the line of fire seared into his right arm just above his elbow, another low grunt escaping his lips.  The hook now drips blood, crimson droplets falling from the pointed tip as Hades holds it in front of his face.

“So flippant, Captain.  It’s hardly - how do you call it? ah, yes - it’s hardly ‘good form’.”

This time, he sees it coming, he sees but he can do nothing as the cool metal plunges into his blunted forearm just above the brace, the hook slicing easily through layers of skin and muscle.  He feels a scream clawing it’s way up his throat, and he clenches his jaw tighter against it, forcing himself to _breathe_ through his nose roughly.  He’s survived pain before, he can do it again.  So what if there’s no way of knowing how long it will last?  He’s dead, he can’t die _more_.  Screaming would only encourage Hades, make him think he can be broken.

And he won’t break, he realises.  He can’t.  He’s got nothing left if he does.  His defiance, his strength, that’s all he has anymore, in this realm of eternal death, and he can’t let that go, he can’t lose that, too.  If he breaks, then he truly _will_ be dead, lost forever to the family and friends he’s so recently found after _centuries_ spent alone.

He’s not ready to lose them all to an eternity spent in despair.

 _Especially not her_.

Hades rips the hook from his arm, and he barely holds back the cry.  But he does.  And he will.  

No matter what.

His entire left arm hurts, a burning agony spreading from the fresh stab wound all the way up to his shoulder, and he wonders just how deep Hades went.  But he forces another grin on his face, stretched thin with pain but a smile nonetheless, and lifts his head to look his captor in the eye.

“I’m still not doing it.”  His voice is low, measured, steady against the storm of pain that threatens to push him over the edge.   _I won’t do what you want,_ he thinks stubbornly, _and I won’t break._

“Everyone breaks eventually, Captain,” Hades says, the glint of anger still alight in his eyes though his words are calm and clear.  For a moment, Killian fears the god can hear his thoughts, but surely he’d be much more angry if that were true.

He fights to hold the grin in place.  “I’m not like everyone,” he says simply.

“No,” agrees Hades with a shake of his head, “no you’re not.  You’re going to be _fun._ ”

At the last word, Hades curls his lips into a dangerous snarl as he he drives the hook deep into Killian’s left shoulder.  Killian’s neck arches tightly against the sudden pain, his head pushing hard against the stones behind him, his eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent cry of agony.  All the muscles in his body tighten against the ropes as he fights to regain control, to hold back the cries that try to push forward, the bruises on his chest and stomach and face burning sharply.

But he makes no sound.  Soon, the pain subsides enough to relax against his bindings, his breaths coming in uneven pants.  But he’s silent.

Hades waves his fingers as he steps back.  “We’ll see you later, Captain,” he says smugly.  “Hope you don’t miss us _too_ much.”

Killian doesn’t say a word.

Claude follows Hades out the entrance, which solidifies into iron bars once more upon their departure, and the echo of their footsteps wanes as they disappear from view.

The ropes vanish suddenly, and he drops to his knees on the hard floor with a soft groan, his head bowed against the pain of wounds both fresh and barely healed.  He can feel the blood oozing under his clothes, hot and wet on his skin, and he wonders how much he can afford to lose down here.

Slowly, he lifts his hand to his shoulder, shaking as he grasps the hook still embedded in his muscles.  He twists his head to the right and bites down on the leather of his jacket, leather that’s tinged with the metallic taste of his own blood, but he ignores it and bites as hard as he can.  He takes a few deep breaths, as deep as he can manage without wincing even more from bruised and battered ribs, and, with a grunt, he _yanks_ his familiar attachment from his body.  It pulls free with a sickeningly wet sound, agony _racing_ through him, and he’s grateful for the leather that fills his mouth, blocking his held-back screams.

He falls back against the wall, releasing his bite on his jacket with a sigh.  With trembling fingers, he swiftly reattaches the bloody hook to his brace, ignoring how the movement pulls at the fresh gash just above it.

For a moment, he just sits there, catching his breath and waiting for the pain to recede a bit more.  For a moment, he just rests there, hoping to fall asleep as the agony throbs in time with the shadow of his heartbeat.  For a moment, he almost _does_ sleep, feeling the blood drying slowly, stickily plastering his clothing to his skin.

But only for a moment.

“Get up, Killian,” he murmurs weakly, his voice oddly hoarse despite not having raised it once during the time Hades had been there.  “Get _up_!”

Right arm shaking slightly, he leverages off the wall, using his feet to push himself across the room to the stone he’d been working on before.  He can’t lift his left arm on its own, the muscles screaming in agony, the deep punctures leaking blood down his arm.  Reaching across his body, he wraps his fingers around the hook, lifting it with his hand, his face twisting in pain at the movement, but he does not stop.

Slowly, he scrapes at the mortar around the stone, concentrating too hard on what should be simple, repetitive movements.  He longs to sleep, to rest, to give into weakness brought on by pain and blood loss, but he keeps going, chiselling away at the cement, the tiny flutterings of dust the only chance he has of getting out of here, eventually.

“Back to work,” he mutters softly to himself.

He thinks of her as he does, reminding himself of all the times they met for the first time, a smile on his lips as he works away at the hardened rock.  He can almost see her smile, the brightness in her eyes lighting up her entire face, and he’s never felt such _happiness_ in all his life.  He hopes he doesn’t see her again for a very long time, for her sake, but he misses her so much, his dead heart clenching painfully at the thought of spending so long without her, tears filling his eye until he almost can’t see at all.  But it’s a different pain than the burn of his wounds, and he welcomes it, holding onto the sight of her in his memory as tightly as he can as he whispers her name to himself.

“Emma.”


	3. Weak Knees, Can't Stand

The heavy rhythm of footsteps pulls Killian from sleep, the cold, empty sound of neat heels on stone echoing in the small space around him.  He gasps awake, his injuries _roaring_ to life as he struggles to sit up straighter against the wall, blinking the grogginess from his one working eye.

Hades and Claude stand in front of where the bars aren’t, inside his cell.

“Did you sleep well, Captain?” Hades asks with a smirk.

Killian flashes him one of his own.  “Oh, wonderfully,” he rasps as he coughs away the sleep from his voice.  “The accommodations here are quite lovely.”

“Hmm, and here I thought my decorator was just being facetious when he told me that.  Shame I sent him to the fires, I suppose,” Hades shrugs, making a show of looking around the sparse cell.

Killian bites back a wince as he shifts slightly where he sits, his wounded arm throbbing sharply.  The hard ground is unrelenting against his cramped legs, aching from however long he’s spent curled up in the corner.  He needs to stretch, he needs to walk around, he needs to get _out_ of here.

He needs Hades to stop trying to make small talk and get it over with, whatever “it” will be this time.

“Are we going to sit around all day talking,” Killian asks, “or can you just get on with it?”

“Night, actually, not that you can tell from here,” the god corrects.  “But sure, I suppose we can do it your way, considering you _are_ the guest of honour.”  Hades nods to Claude, who steps forward heavily, his face reading nothing more than indifference as he approaches.

Killian waits, forcing himself to remain completely still, though his recent wounds _scream_ to run, to move, to evade capture yet again, but there is nowhere else to go, not yet.  He waits until Claude bends down, his huge arms reaching closer for Killian’s jacket, ready to grab him and lift.

_Now._

He punches upward as hard and fast as he can, slamming his fist into the larger man’s chin.  With a brief moment of satisfaction, he watches as Claude’s head snaps up as he staggers backwards, away from the blow.

But not before the former guard lashes out a fist of his own, cracking Killian across his nose.

He reels from the punch with a quiet gasp, his head spinning to the right as his eyes water in response.  He feels fresh blood running from the split skin at the bridge of his nose and he suppresses the urge to hold his face in his hand, blinking rapidly to clear his vision as Claude recovers and comes back for him.

With a heavy grunt, Killian _lunges_ forward, pushing off the floor with his hand and foot as he kicks his left leg up and out as hard as he can toward the other man’s legs, hoping to hit him in the knee, or perhaps higher, if he's lucky.  Claude catches his ankle easily and yanks him forward, dragging Killian’s upper body off the wall until he’s flat on his back on the cold floor.  The larger man doesn’t let go, then.  Instead, he grabs onto Killian’s lower thigh with his other hand and _twists_ sharply, bending his knee in a way it isn’t meant to go.

The pain is _excruciating_.  Killian arches wildly against the floor, trying desperately to relieve the pressure on the joint as Claude continues to turn his leg, Killian’s fist opening and closing uselessly in the air, jaw clenched tightly as he struggles not to cry out from the shooting pains that manage to snake all the way up his back.

“Claude,” Hades says somewhere just at the edge of hearing, and the next moment he’s lying half curled on his side, his hand reaching shakily for his hurt leg.

He wheezes for air, sprawled on the hard ground, each breath through clenched teeth as he fights to get the pain under control, to keep his gasps from sounding like the sobs they might become if he’s not careful.  Sensation is gone below his knee, the joint itself radiating agony with every shudder his body makes, and he can barely stand the touch of his own fingers against it.

“Tsk, tsk, Captain,” Hades says as he steps toward him, tilting his head to match Killian’s angle.  “I know you’re trying to show me that you won’t give up, but I never took you for an outright _fool_.”

Killian takes a couple of slow breaths, the air coming easier than before, and he glares up at the other man.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he manages to rasp between tremors.

“No, you didn't, did you,” Hades grins, crouching down beside him.  “You did it to prove to yourself that you _could_ , that you still have the free will to fight against me, despite whatever cost to yourself.  Am I right?”

Killian doesn’t respond, he can’t.  He’s shaking too badly, and it’s not just from the pain.  Hades knows what he’s doing, he _knows_ what he’s holding onto.

He forces the fear away, he forces himself to focus as best he can.  No matter what Hades knows, he can’t take away his choice from him, no matter what he does to him.  Hades can’t take his reaction, he can’t take his defiance.  And now, more than ever, Killian needs as much of that as he can get.

He takes a slow breath, shivering in determination as much as from agony, but he calms his terror, sends it far from where he needs to be.

“Tell me something, Captain,” asks Hades, still crouched beside him.  “Is it worth your life?”

The words echo around the small cell and return to his ears in a slightly different voice, real memories of a false world.   _Is she worth your life, pirate?_

She was, then, and he is now, the fight so much more important than the outcome, the strength of his will the only thing he has left, in this realm without her.

He grins, just a slight curve of his lips, quivering slightly with the pain he's willing to endure, but it's a grin nonetheless.

“Yes, it is,” he whispers hoarsely.

Hades sighs as he stands and nods to Claude, and this time Killian can’t help flinching visibly as the other man grabs handfuls of his clothing and hauls him upright.  He tightens his muscles against the fire that burns through his leg at the movement, struggling to put as much weight on his right foot as possible as Claude all but slams him against the wall.  The familiar ropes twist their way out of the stone and wrap around his limbs, and he nearly cries out as they snake around his injured leg, securing him tightly to the wall once more.

He's gasping again, his head hanging limply on his chest as he fights for control. He's exhausted already and Hades hasn't even begun.

He feels the god take his hook again, twist it off his arm, and he struggles to pay attention, to be prepared for each stroke and slash of the sharp metal at his skin, to be prepared to hold back, but his head is so _heavy,_ all he wants is rest.

He watches the tip hover over his right arm, and he’s grateful it’s not his left, his muscles on that side still so sore.  Without a word, Hades plunges the metal into his bicep and then yanks it out in the same smooth, almost elegant, motion.  Without a word, he grits his teeth and takes the pain, takes it and shoves it down deep, away from where it can distract him.  Again, Hades tears a new hole in leather and skin, and again, he’s silent, a muted grunt deep in his chest the only response he makes with each stab of the curved attachment.  The hook moves lower, to his right thigh, the thin fabric of his pants no match to the sharp metal as it rips into him, again and again, then back up to his left arm and his chest, stab and pull, in and out.

How he manages to stay silent, he’s not sure, fire and ice burning through each new tear in his body, but he credits exhaustion as much as his own determination.  He feels his blood running down his arm, his leg, hot and wet on cloth and skin, his awareness flowing with it as well, and he tries hard not to lose consciousness now, not until it’s over.

Hades takes a step back, admiring his work, his fingers tapping against the hook in his fist.

“I must admit, I _do_ like the way you look now, just a little bit more broken than before.”

Killian tries to catch his breath, to force sound through his throat, to respond.  “I won’t break,” he rasps weakly, hoping to sound more confident than he feels.

A pause, and he can almost see the god choosing his next words.  “That’s what I’ve always hated about you, Captain,” Hades says, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as he watches Killian loll against his bindings.  “You’re so brave, so stupidly _courageous_ , that you think you’re unbreakable.”

He leans in closer, and Killian manages not to flinch, though he braces himself against pain he knows is never far.  Hades reaches out and grabs Killian’s left knee, digging his fingers into the muscles and bone, and the pain he thought he had finally ignored comes rushing back, blinding _agony_ racing up and down his leg from the other man’s grasp.  Killian clenches his teeth down hard over a scream, but he can’t control the edges of sound escaping his mouth, the panting of breath as he fights with everything he has left not to break down, not now, not ever.  His neck feels as though it’ll snap with the pressure as he convulses against the ropes that bind him to the wall, jaw clamped so tightly his head hurts where it’s pressed against the stone wall.

“You stood up to the Dark Ones and won,” Hades continues, his voice low, tightening his grip on the wounded joint, and Killian’s eyes fill with tears he desperately tries not to release.  He’s wheezing now, pain coating his every move, every breath, and he’d rather go without oxygen than awaken more of the torment that each rise and fall of his chest brings.  “Fluke or not, that kind of _strength_ has no place in my world, _Captain_.  So either you can willingly choose to _give up_ , or I’ll be forced to show you just how weak you _really_ are.”

With a quick movement, Hades twists the hook into the muscle just above his knee and steps back.  Killian collapses against the ropes with a groan, his strength gone, the pain fading too slowly to feel relief.  His breath comes in uneven bursts, and he imagines the agony leaving his body with each force of air he pushes out, but it’s not enough, the fire still burning through his leg and fresh injuries.  He’s aware of how closely he’s the god in front of him is watching him, watching for weakness, for any signs of giving up, so he fights to fix a scowl on his face, despite his exhaustion.

“Claude, say goodbye,” Hades says, stepping backward toward the opening of the cell.

The large man says nothing as he turns to follow.

Killian takes a quick breath, pulling the words easily to his mouth.  “You looked better with my hook in your neck,” he mutters hoarsely, softly, but clearly.

He can _feel_ Hades glare, and he’s tempted to lift his head from where it rests on his chest, tempted to make eye contact with the lord of this realm, tempted to _wink_ at him in defiance.  But he’s too tired to do anything more than smirk mirthlessly.

Hades leaves without another word, the bars rematerializing over the entranceway, and he braces himself against the wall as the ropes vanish.  This time, he doesn’t fall, but sinks slowly to the ground, the hard stones at his back.  His left leg crumples in front of him, the hook sticking out of his lower thigh, blood pooling on the ground from wounds on his legs and arms.  He needs to pull it out, and he’s pretty sure he won’t die from blood loss, not down here.  He needs it to finish his work, he remembers, as he eyes the corner where the loose stone waits.

With a soft groan, he reaches his trembling hand toward the shiny metal, fingers weak with pain and slicked with his blood already.  He bites the familiar leather of his jacket, the metallic taste of blood no longer obvious amid the heavy scent of it all around him.  He tightens his fingers on the hook, tightening his jaw on the leather, and breathes out slowly, shakily, as he pulls the hook from his leg in one smooth movement.

He wants to cry out, to scream, to rage against the pain of his body, he wants to, but he doesn’t, swallowing his cries and screams and anger with a muffled sob as he blinks away the wetness that threatens his eyes.   _Not now_ , he thinks.   _Not ever_.

He rests against the stones, fighting for control, searching for anger to fuel the strength he needs to continue.  He thinks of every wrong he’s suffered in his life, every moment of unfairness, every slight, but it comes to him detached, as if it no longer matters and, he supposes, it probably doesn’t, not anymore.  He’s so _tired_ , all he wants to do is sleep, to stop fighting, he’s been fighting for so long.  But not at this cost, not throwing in his lot with Hades.

_Not at the cost of who he is._

With another groan, he lifts his right foot up and uses it to help push his body against the wall, sliding toward the corner with the loosened stone.  He nearly passes out, his twisted muscles and open wounds shifting with each movement.  But he continues anyway, inching closer to the other wall, his blood leaving dark trails on the hard floor.

He reaches the corner and lays his head against the wall with a sigh, the cool stone against his swollen eye comforting and soothing.  He raises his hand, the hook clenched in his bloodied fingers, and he counts the scrapes as he draws the sharpened point along the cement between the stones, small puffs of dust the only sign of progress.

_One, two, three, four, five._

His hand drops to his lap, the hook still held loosely in his fist, and pants, the effort so much more than last time, but so much more important, too.  He rests for a moment, then lifts his hand again.

 _One, two, three, four, five_.

Again, his hand falls, again he fights for breath, the cold wall slowly warming the longer his face rests against it.  And again, he forces his hand up.

 _One, two, three, four_ -

He doesn’t reach five.


	4. Back Against the Ropes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "graphic depictions of violence" warning is there for a reason. This chapter is probably about as graphic as it's going to get, though obviously future ones will reference these events. Please proceed accordingly.

Strong fists grab Killian’s clothing and pull him upright as he struggles awake.  His hook clatters noisily to the ground as he loses his grip on it, his hand grasping at the wide wrist of the man pulling him up.  He tries to get his feet under him as Claude’s hold on his jacket pulls at the various wounds littering his arms and legs.  He remembers his twisted knee too late, gasping hard as the pain chases the last bits of sleep from his mind as he leans heavily to the right.

“Good morning, Captain,” Hades calls out cheerfully, stepping out behind the former black guard.  “I thought the light of day would be the perfect time to continue our little… _conversation_.  Shame there isn’t any of that beautiful Underworld sunlight in here.”  Hades looks around the small cell as if seeing it for the first time, tapping his chin with a well-manicured finger.

Killian sighs and rolls his eyes, attempting to slip a mask of indifference across his features.  He doesn’t want to admit just how much of his balance he owes to Claude and his iron grip on his clothing.  

He quickly takes stock of his injuries, trying to figure how much fight he has left for the game of torture his tormentor seems to be enjoying.  His muscles are stiff from spending the night sleeping sitting up, left knee still throbbing painfully as he tries to keep his weight off it as best he can.  His ribs are sore on each breath he takes, and he still can’t see out of his left eye, his face painfully swollen from the dead man’s blows.  He can feel the crusted, dried blood against his skin from all the gashes and cuts on his body and he realises he still has no idea how blood loss works for souls already dead.  He’s not sure he’s really willing to find out just how much blood he can lose before suffering serious side effects.

“This again?” Killian manages with forced boredom, alarmed at how weak his voice sounds even after a night of rest.  “I thought we were through discussing the decor.”

“I really should have gone with the sandstone instead,” Hades muses absently.  “Would have matched the iron I picked out for the bars much better.”

Killian holds back a response.  He’s no idea what Hades has planned this time, but he’s in too much pain to risk pushing the god too hard, not before he knows just how much energy he’s going to need for what’s to come.  He forces himself to wait, to breathe evenly as he shoves the residual agony somewhere deep down where it can’t distract him.

Hades takes another moment before he turns back to Killian, his grin sliding effortlessly across his face.  “Ah yes, Captain.  Where were we?”

“I believe you were looking for that,” Killian nods toward his hook on the floor.

“No need,” Hades replies with a shrug.  “I have something else in mind for now.”  He glances at Claude, who pulls Killian toward the familiar stretch of wall.  He braces himself for the impact of stone at his back, for the ropes to slide their way across his arms and legs, but he’s not prepared for the guard turning him and shoving him face first into the unrelenting wall.

Killian bites back a cry as various gashes and his swollen knee collide with the wall, and it takes a bit of maneuvering to keep from stepping on that leg as Claude holds him firmly in place.  The thick ropes slither out, tying tightly around his body, and the guard steps back beside his master.  Killian’s left eye is pressed against the stone, his unswollen one clear to watch Hades, and he tries to angle his head back as far as he can to keep the bruises on his face off the hard wall.

He isn’t prepared for the whip that appears in the god’s hand.

_At least it’s something familiar._

“I’m sure you know what this is, with all your years at sea,” Hades announces, noticing Killian’s momentary surprise.  He slides his fingers through the leather cords, yanking at the knots at the ends of each as he untangles the strands.

“We’ve been acquainted,” Killian replies tersely.  He’s no clue how much Hades actually knows about his life, no idea to what degree the god knows of his… history with the cat o’ nine tails he holds in his hands, but he certainly doesn’t want to be the one to fill him in on the details.

“You could just accept my job offer,” the god says.  “Reclaim your pirate name, be master over your own fortune again, never submit to anyone’s rule.”

“I’m not doing it,” Killian responds quietly.  “I’m not like that anymore.”

“Oh,” Hades chuckles mirthlessly, “I’m sorry, I forgot.  You’re a _hero_ now, aren’t you.  Well, I guess you’re still under _my_ rule then.”

Hades pulls back his arm, and Killian turns back to the stone, bracing himself for the pain he knows is coming, though hopefully the thickness of his jacket will be enough to lessen the blow.  He hears the whistle of the cat as it comes close, the crack of it as the tails slam against his back, and he almost cries out from the _fire_ that ignites from the lash.

_Bloody hell, that hurts._

He gasps shakily, the pain of it far greater than he’d expected.  He barely has a moment to recover before the tails of the cat strike again, searing into the skin beneath his clothing somehow, some magic Hades must be using.  His jaw clenches tightly to keep silent.  He’s exhausted from the tortures he’s already suffered, he doesn’t know how long he can hold back.

Again, and again, Hades lands the whip on his back, the tails raking his flesh under his shirt, hot trails of blood already running down his skin and seeping into the top of his trousers.  He can't draw enough breath, the pain and force of the lash overwhelming his every nerve and he’s left gasping in the wake of each strike.  He still doesn't even know if he _has_ to breathe, this damn Underworld with its rules hidden behind lies and half-truths told by the man who wields the instrument of his agony.  Again, and again, the leather straps crash against his jacket and it’s as if his clothing is no protection against the bite of the whip, as if there’s nothing there at all.  For a moment, he flashes back to the memories to his youth - shirtless, shivering, tied to the grating with the sting of the whip burning across his skin.

It's too familiar, this position he's in, the cat scraping at his flesh as he desperately tries to keep silent with each blow, lip bloodied as he bites back his pain.  It's just another bully, another person set on hurting him for the enjoyment of it, all other reasoning just excuses to see him break.

He didn't back then, back when he was just a child, and he wouldn't cry out now.

But he'll be damned if he allows Hades to know just how close he comes.

Finally, the blows stop, and Killian can’t help the sigh of relief from his lips as he sags limp against the binds that hold him upright.  He’s not even sure how conscious he is anymore, everything fading in and out of his awareness, the pain crashing over him in waves with each shuddering breath he takes.  He barely notices the approaching footsteps of his torturer behind him.

“You’re no _hero_ , Captain,” Hades whispers in his ear, his tone biting.  “You embraced the darkness _minutes_ after you became the Dark One, killed Merlin and betrayed Emma-”

“I warned you not to say her name!” Killian burst out, thrashing against the ropes weakly, but he’s powerless to do anything more.

Hades only smiles.  “You betrayed her, you betrayed all of them the _moment_ you had a little taste of that familiar darkness again.  Those people, her _family_?  They took you in, they were willing to accept you as one of them, and you were prepared to kill them all for a pat on the head from evil itself.”

Killian opens his mouth to respond, but the ropes vanish just then.  He’s about to fall, his muscles unable to support his own weight, when strong arms grab him again and turn him around.  He hisses sharply, his raw and bleeding back slamming agonizingly against the wall as the ropes restrain him once again.  He tries to pull forward against the binds, to keep his fresh injuries from being pressed so hard against the stones, but he can’t move, and has no strength left to pull harder.

He can feel the trails of blood running slowly down his back, the warmth of it still cooler than the burn of the lash just moments before.  He fights to get his breathing under control, to push back the nauseating agony that claws at him from everywhere.  He doesn’t know how much longer he can last, or even why he’s still fighting.

One word, just one word, floats in his mind just then.

 _Emma_.

Her face shimmers in front of his eyes, bright green eyes laughing, twinkling in the rare moments of happiness they were afforded while he was alive.  Her hair, gold and impossibly soft against the rough callouses of his fingers.  Her voice, her smell, her _smile_ , and his heart squeezes tightly remembering all the tiny moments that define the woman he misses with all that he has left.

But mostly, he remembers her love, how it filled every corner of his darkened soul to hear her say the words she held most precious.  Her strength, lent to him when he doubted everything about himself.  And her unwavering belief in him, that he could be something more than the villain he thought himself to be all those centuries, that he’s a hero now.

Whether he believes it or not, she does - she always has, and it’s everything he needs to regain some of the strength lost to pain and blood loss, to refuel his need to escape in whatever way he can.

“I fought back,” Killian mumbles as fiercely as he can, his head falling forward against his chest, and he’s too tired to hold it up anymore.  “I fought the darkness and won.  I’m stronger than you think.”

Hades bends down and picks up his hook, the metal scraping over the stone loudly as everything blurs together in Killian’s vision.  He can barely keep his eyes open, or keep himself upright without the tight ropes lashing him to the wall.  His back _burns_ with a fire he’s not felt in decades, and the familiarity doesn’t help it hurt any less.  Even the pain in his leg seems muted and farther away compared to the racing agony of flayed flesh under his clothes.

He’s dimly aware of Hades approaching him again, the hook spinning lazily in the god’s hand.  He shakes his head quickly, willing himself awake.  Hades isn’t done with him yet, that much is clear.

“You fought, yes,” Hades says quietly, his gaze focused on the metal in his fingers.  “You fought back with a strength I have no place for down here, that _defiance_ you so eagerly hold onto, despite my best efforts.”

Hades looks up just then and Killian forces his eyes open, forces away the dread that’s starting to rise in his gut at the way Hades holds the tip of his hook dangerously close to his stomach, just under his ribs.  He glances quickly to the god before him and immediately wishes he hadn’t, the grin on the other man’s face only adding to his fear.

“You fought, my dear Captain, but you did _not_ win.”  At the last word, Hades slides the hook into him, almost casually.  Killian gasps as the metal sinks into skin and muscle and probably his lung, he gasps and he can’t breathe, every other sensation fading against the white-hot _agony_ in his abdomen.  Hades only pushes harder, slowly, slowly deeper, and Killian squeezes his eyes shut as he struggles for breath.

“You see,” Hades continues, a dark edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before.  “When that sword pierced your heart, wielded so skillfully by your love, by _Emma_ , the darkness didn’t exactly go where you wanted it, it wasn’t destroyed.  Someone managed to… _redirect_ it, and reclaim the power for himself.”

Small grunts and desperate noises escape Killian’s lips, but he can’t cry out if he wants to, not now, the hook stealing his breath straight from his chest as it slides in even further.  He pulls away as far as he can, but he can’t escape the sharp metal or the pain that blooms across his back as he presses hard against the wall.  He pries open his eye, he can’t make out much more than the face that’s so close to his.  Still, he tries to listen, to hear the words he knows Hades wants him to, to force himself to _understand_ despite the blackness seeping into the edges of sight the longer he goes without air.

 _It can’t be, it can’t_ …  

“And I think you know that someone, rather well actually,” the god continues, a grin spreading across his face.  “That’s right, Captain.   _Rumplestiltskin is the Dark One again_.  And it’s all thanks to _you_.”

Hades finally steps back, finally releases his grip on the hook, but Killian still can’t seem to draw enough breath, the sharp metal still firmly embedded under his ribs as he gasps shallowly.  And he can’t bear to think about what the god just told him.  

_Rumplestiltskin… the Dark One… It was all for nothing…_

Fire unlike any of the pain in his body rushes through him, the fire he knows so well from centuries chasing his first love’s murderer.   _Vengeance_.  For a moment, it’s all he feels, the rage, the hatred - even more than the agony that overwhelmed him just moments before.  His one moment of heroism, his greatest sacrifice, the strongest he’s ever fought against the darkness that had chased him his whole life, and his enemy stole it all away.  

“You’re no hero,” Hades all but spits at him as he turns away.  “You’re just a pirate who doesn’t know when to surrender.”

Claude turns to follow him through the doorway, and for a moment Killian dreads their exit and the ropes that will vanish with their departure.  He knows he can’t stand, he can’t hold himself up without them - hell, he can barely breathe - and he can’t even imagine trying to scrape himself carefully down the wall, the fresh wounds on his back too raw to even consider that level of torment.  

But they do leave, and he’s able to pull in a shuddering breath through his nose before the ropes disappear, leaving him with nothing to support himself, nothing but the stones behind him.  He immediately grasps the hook with trembling fingers, holding it in place as he starts to fall.  He manages to keep most his weight off his hurt leg, arching his back away from the stones so his shoulders take the brunt of the slide down the wall.  Tears of pain spring to his unswollen eye nonetheless, and it’s almost more than he can handle.

He blinks them back fiercely, refusing to let them fall.  He waits a few moments, waits for his body to relax.  Slowly, his breathing evens to something shallow that doesn’t jar the hook in his belly too badly.  The trembling in his muscles calms, the screaming pain in his back subsides, and the twisting agony in his belly fades just enough.  He waits, mostly because he’s not ready to do what he knows he must if he’s to continue working on his escape.  He glances quickly at the stone he’s been trying to loosen, at the shallow scrapes in the cement he’s already managed to chisel from the mortar around it.

_So close._

But he needs his hook to continue, the hook that’s still buried in his stomach.  He looks down, the slippery heat coating his fingers as they grip weakly at the metal, the bright red pulsing out along the attachment.  He feels the nausea rising in his throat and he quickly looks away, swallowing hard.  Already the pain of his wounds has muted to what he can just barely handle, but he knows he’s on the edge of consciousness and about to slip into the darkness of sleep.

He needs to do it _now_.  Before he loses his nerve, before he passes out and leaves his work unfinished.

Before he’s too weak to do it at all.

Killian tightens his fingers on the hook as he turns to the side and bites down on the same stretch of leather jacket that already has his teeth marks indented in it from the last time, and the time before that.  He breathes slowly, as deeply as he can, fighting back the desire to just leave it in, forget his escape, forget everything and just _rest_.

He closes his eyes and, just for a second, thinks of her, the one person who believed in him more than he ever could himself.  And it’s enough.

He bites harder, ignores the racing of his heart, and gives himself to the count of three to just get it over with.  One.   _Breathe._ Two.   _Breathe!_

Three.

He yanks the hook out as fast as he can, following the curve of it instinctively as it slides smoothly from beneath his ribs.  But he’s not prepared for just how much it _hurts_ , he can’t bite hard enough to fully silence the cries that rip from deep in his throat, all his muscles pulled taut in agony.  He manages to drop the hook on the ground, his hand clamped tightly over the gaping wound as blood - hot and wet - bubbles out faster than he can hold it in.  Every touch of his hand against the hole in his body is fire, the pain more than he can bear.

He can’t stop the nausea from clawing its way up his throat this time, can’t swallow it down fast enough, and his stomach muscles clench tightly despite his desperate attempts to hold back.  His vision goes white as he retches, but nothing comes up, nothing until he coughs and he tastes the blood that dribbles out from his lips.

He coughs again, weakly, and releases his hold on consciousness as he passes out against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews? Comments? Just say hi?


	5. Break Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Killian. I'm so sorry...

He comes awake slowly, his senses drifting into awareness one by one as he sits crumpled against the wall.  He’s so damn weary; opening his one working eye has never been harder.  He gasps as the utter _agony_ of his body wakes as well, crashing over him in wave after wave of pain.

It takes a few minutes before he can catch his breath, but it comes only in short pants.  He tries desperately not to jostle his wounds on each inhale; every tiny movement sends shocks of fire lancing through his body.  He has to focus to determine which parts hurt the most, each injury's pain lost in the screaming cacophony that overwhelms him.  Everything hurts, and Killian wants nothing more than to fall back asleep, to drift away again, slip back into the pain-free bliss of unconsciousness.

He’s weak, he feels his muscles unwilling to respond to even the barest suggestion of movement.  His back burns with each breath he takes, licks of fire shooting across his skin.  He can feel the dried blood in his shirt, the way it feels crusted to his back.  His left leg won’t unbend, his knee joint registering absolutely nothing.  He could reach out and touch it, he supposes, make sure his leg is still responsive under swollen skin and torn muscles, but he really doesn’t want to move, not with the roaring pain that seems to come from every part of him, but most loudly from his side.

His side.  The stab wound.  He needs to see, to know just how bad…

He manages to move his hand toward the blood-soaked hole in his shirt, slowly, inch by agonising inch.  He carefully prods at the wound beneath, fingers trembling from both pain and weakness.  Touching the edges of the circular gash as gently as he can, he hisses, head thrown back, as the full pain of it rares to life.  Another handful of moments go by as he wills his muscles to unclench, shoving the pain as far away as he can.  Blood no longer pulses thickly from the hole in his side, though it slowly seeps out in a steady trickle as he touches it.  There are no bubbles in the blood, something he would have expected from a clearly punctured lung.

Killian drops his hand from his side with a quiet release of air.  He has no idea what’s going on down here, can’t make sense of everything that’s happened since he died.  He’s certain the hook had pierced his lung - his life of violence taught him that much at least.  But if it had, how is he still breathing?  He’s seen first hand how chest wounds usually progress.  He should, by all rights, be dead from such a wound.

Or dead-er.

He closes his eye and rests against the wall once more, his breath coming in short pants that don’t hurt quite as much as full breaths.  He tries to ignore the pain that flares across his ribs and back with each gasp, but he knows it’s a waste of time to even try.

 _Why bother, when Hades will just be back to hurt me again?_ he can’t help thinking bitterly.

He knows he’s nearing the end of his ability to stand firmly against the tortures of this realm - never has he been pushed so far in all the years of his too-long life, not even the worst brigs or childhood torments.  He’s dead, he should be able to withstand more; it’s not like he’s going to die further, right?

He sighs again, wincing as the release of air tugs at his wounds.  He’d known, while slipping away from life in Camelot, that his death would be anything but simple; in his experience, nothing ever was for him.  And when he’d begged Emma to drive Excalibur through his heart, he’d been pretty certain his Underworld experience wouldn’t be eternal happiness and peace.  His lifetimes spent making poor choices lent itself to a far less pleasurable afterlife, especially with his recent actions as the Dark One.

But he’d never imagined anything like _this_.

He tries to clear his mind, to _think_ about what Hades is really trying to do to him.  He continuously offers him his old job back, at a cost too high for Killian to even consider.  The god had lamented his strength - both in withstanding torture and facing down the Dark Ones - but then laughed at him for his weakness, how quickly he fell into the trap of darkness.  And if that wasn’t enough, Hades had to be the one to tell him about Rumplest-

_No._

That’s one thought Killian knows he can’t dwell on, not down here, not when he can do nothing about it.  He failed, he failed so completely, both in embracing the darkness and his inability to fully destroy it.  Is that what Hades wants?  To make him feel worthless, like he can no longer be the hero he’d tried so hard to become?  And to what end?  Just to get him to accept his old pirating position, tasked with dispatching a few hundred more souls down to suffer as he does in this realm?

It doesn’t make any sense, and he’s far too tired to come up with any other explanation.  But it isn’t like there’s anything else to do.

He suddenly remembers.   _The stone._

Slowly, his neck muscles protesting just enough to make him wince, he turns his head to the side to see the rock he’d been working at loosening.  Still there, the faint notches he'd already cleared from the mortar visible from his position to the ground.  He could grab the hook from the ground beside him, slide over the few feet to the corner, but even the thought of jostling his bloodied and broken body is more than he can handle.

Tears spring to his eyes, pricking the back of his lids with a quiet insistence.  That stone is his only way out, the only way he’s going to stay sane down here amidst all the violence and pain.  It’s action, it’s a plan, even if the way beyond it is more complicated than he can imagine - it’s something to _do_.  And now, he’s too wounded to even reach it, and that hurts possibly more than the physical injuries mutilating skin and bone.

He swallows hard, blinking his one working eye rapidly to clear his vision.  He’s not going to cry, not now, not here.  It would mean he’s given up, and that’s one thing Killian Jones does not do.

He’ll rest, he vows, eyeing the corner stone almost longingly.  He’ll wait, he’ll survive.  And then he’ll get back to work and get the hell out of here.

He rolls his head back, clenching his jaw tightly against a twinge of nausea rising at the movement.  He can’t throw up, not again.  He can’t handle that level of pain right now, not when all he needs is sleep.  He needs to regain his strength for whenever Hades returns, with whatever torture he’ll have planned.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

It seems to be a waste of time.

When he next opens his eye, it’s as if no time passed, his body in just as much pain as before, the exhaustion and weariness just as strong, despite the short rest he’s managed to take.  He doesn’t know how long he slept, the windowless cell giving no indication of time, but it doesn’t matter.  He sighs softly, resting his head against the stones tiredly.

Footsteps echo in the hallway, calling his attention to the approaching god meant to hurt him, and the memory of his heartbeat races in fear.  He’s not ready, he’s too weak, he can’t-

He has to.  He can’t let Hades break him.  Especially now.

The bars disappear in the familiar shimmer he desperately wants to duplicate in the future, and Hades and Claude step in.  He forces a smirk on his face, ignoring how the expression tugs at the bruises and dried blood on his face.

“You missed me, how sweet,” he says quietly.  Hades grins, but says nothing, and his terror only increases.   _Breathe_ , he cautions himself.   _Slow and easy.  Just breathe._

But Killian’s certain the god notices the way his breath hitches in his throat as he kneels beside Killian's slumped form, his face so close.  Hades’ hand grabs absently for the bloodied hook on the floor, lifting it without breaking eye contact.

“I suppose you could say that,” Hades replies, just as quietly.

“Whatever it is you want from me,” Killian spits out with as much force as he can muster, “I’m not doing it.  I told you that before.”

“Yes,” nods the other man.  “Yes, you did.  Multiple times, if I recall correctly.  But - and here’s the part that confuses me - you didn’t exactly give me a good _reason_.”

Before Killian can move away, Hades grabs his hair with one fist and pulls his head back, resting the tip of the hook against his scalp just at his hairline.  Killian grunts softly, the sharp point pressing into his skin, almost - but not quite - drawing blood.

Killian grits his teeth tightly, words strained behind his clenched jaw.  “Maybe that’s not the man I want to-”

Hades laughs and begins to slide the hook deeper in his hair, cutting into his scalp.  Killian just barely holds back a gasp, blood hot and wet trailing down his forehead, over his swollen eye and down his cheek.  “Not the man you want to be?  No, I think it’s something else.  You have this overwhelming need to be _brave_ , don’t you.  To jump into danger without a care for yourself.  It's almost… _altruistic_.”

The god leans even closer, his eyes dark despite the smile still spread across his face.  “But, my dear captain, what I don’t understand is _why_.  Up there, when you were alive, maybe it was to impress the girl, win over her parents, or maybe to try to be one of them, a _hero_. But here? No one is around, you're _alone,_ and yet you continue resisting.  Why keep up the act when no one is here to watch, when no one here _cares_?”  His grip tightens on Killian's hair.  A quiet grunt escapes Killian's throat, blood from the fresh cut at his hairline still flowing down his face, though thankfully not into his one working eye.

“What I think,” Hades continues, “and hear me out on this, is that maybe you just _enjoy_ fighting. I think you just can't help being contrary and obstinate.  You have all this anger in you, this… _compulsion_ to fight battles you can't possibly win.”

His next words are just above a whisper, though Killian can hear each syllable clearly.  “But you can’t escape from here.”

Hades releases Killian’s hair with a shake, and stands, stepping back from the wall with the hook still held in his hand, fresh blood dripping from the tip.  Killian struggles to ignore the burn from the newest gash on his head, to slip a mask of indifference over his features.

“I don’t-”

“The stone,” Hades nods to the section of wall Killian had been working at loosening.  

 _He knows_.  

Killian can’t help the panic from building, the dread of what the god intends to do about his now obvious escape attempt.  “Everyone tries to get that one stone free,” Hades continues.  “I think the original architect left it loose on purpose.  But even with your hook, you can’t move it, no matter how much of the mortar you chip away.”

Something shatters in Killian at those words, the realisation that Hades has known his plan all along, that all his efforts were for nothing, that he no longer has any way out.  For a moment, it’s difficult for him to draw breath, his chest heaving as he gasps at the sudden loss of purpose, of direction.  He forces himself to calm, to slow down, to just…

“Stand him up,” he hears Hades say.  He braces himself for the pain he knows is coming, but he finds his earlier fear all but gone.  Hades is going to hurt him, he knows.  But nothing hurts quite so much as having his only escape taken away.  It’s almost as if the torture doesn’t even matter anymore.

Claude grasps his jacket, yanks him to stand against the walls, and the ropes he knows so well pull him tightly against the harsh stones.  It hurts, he feels the gashes across his back open with the impact, his knee still so painfully swollen, his stomach blindingly agonising with the movement.  He clenches his jaw against any sound that might escape, but it’s almost as if the pain is far away, not quite attached to his body anymore.  He’s still weak, his head lolling to one side to keep the blood from his scalp from blocking his vision, but he feels more drained than before.

He almost feels… broken.

 _No_.  He shakes himself a bit, pushing away that particular thought.  He can’t break, he _can’t_.  Not for Hades, the god for whom broken souls is a measure of his own success.  He can’t break, but he’s not sure he really wants to keep fighting, either.  He feels the same as he had all those years ago - on the verge of giving up after spending centuries chasing false leads and dead ends to destroy the monster who stole his hand, his love, and now his heroism, the monster that gets to live while he’s… here.

He never gave up then, not even when all seemed lost.  And he’s sure as hell not going to give up now.  He’ll just have to… endure.  At least he knows he’s good at _that_.

Hades holds up his hook, the hook that’s caused him more pain in the last few days than it had throughout his centuries of life, and Killian’s never hated the thing more.  But there’s no escape, not anymore, so he doesn’t even flinch when the god waves his other hand over the metal appendage, engulfing it in bright blue flames.

“You know I have to ask again,” Hades says absently, watching the flames dance along the hook.  “So, what’ll it be, Captain?  You’ll take the job?”

Every other time, the answer had been ready on his tongue, his mouth racing to toss the words to the god who hates his refusal.  Every other time, he knew where he stood, why he was fighting, why he stood firm against the ruler of this realm.  Every other time, he was ready to bear the pain that came with his refusal.

But this time, the flippant refusal he'd spat out time and time again doesn’t come. This time, he can't help but wonder if Hades is right, if there isn’t any reason to keep fighting, to stubbornly continue this battle he clearly cannot win. This time he pauses, a long moment between the question and his answer, not quite ready for the agony he knows is coming, not quite ready to break completely.

This time, he doesn't say no, just slowly shakes his head as he leans heavily against the wall.

Without a word, Hades brings the flaming hook forward to press the flat side of it against his thigh.  The metal _burns_ through his trousers, searing into the skin beneath.  Killian’s entire body goes rigid as he arches as far from the pain as he can.  His mouth flies open in a silent scream of agony, the blinding pain lancing through his leg.  He can feel every muscle in his neck tensing sharply, his limbs tight against the bonds, skin burning, burning.

Finally Hades pulls the hook away.

Killian collapses against the ropes, his head falling to his chest as he gasps quietly.  He glances down quickly at his leg, expecting to see the charred remains of his trousers covering a scorched burn, but the fabric seems untouched.  He feels the blistered injury underneath, the wound on fire despite the burning hook no longer near it, but, as with the lash earlier, the heated metal seems to affect only his skin and not the clothing covering it.

Before he’s ready, Hades approaches with the hook again, touching it against his right arm just above the ropes.  Killian pulls back, all his muscles tense as the fire blazes across his skin.  Strangled sounds trapped deep in his chest are the only noises in the room.  The pain is _incredible_ , he can’t breathe, he can’t-

Hades steps back and again Killian slumps wearily in his bindings, the ropes cutting into him almost painlessly compared to the absolute anguish from his other wounds.  He pulls in breath after shaky breath, trying desperately to ignore as much of the fresh agony assaulting him as possible.  His vision swims alarmingly, darkness at the edges of sight.  He forces it away with a quick shake of his head, blinking rapidly.

But the hook is already burning him once more, pressed flat to his left shoulder just over the barely-healed stab wound.  It’s worse, so much more painful than the last times, the gash in his shoulder searing in the intense heat.  He can feel the scream building deep inside, and it takes all his strength to refuse its exit.  His body spasms uncontrollably in the tightly-wound ropes as he desperately tries to escape, to run, to _move,_ from the agony that assaults him every time Hades enters the room.

There’s nowhere to go, Hades made sure of that.  There’s no goal for him to work toward anymore, no chance of getting out on his own.  The loose stone was a dead end.

And so is this place.

Killian doesn’t even feel it when the god removes the hook from his arm, he doesn’t notice when his body finally relaxes, his muscles slack, the ropes the only thing keeping him upright.  He’s losing consciousness, he knows, he can feel his tenuous grasp on awareness slipping away.  He’s tired of being trapped in his pain-wracked body, tied to a wall completely helpless.  He’s tired of fighting so hard with no end in sight.

He’s just… tired.

He breathes as deeply as he can, air rushing through exhausted lungs, as he waits for the next fiery touch of his own hook, the next searing agony on his body.  He waits, but nothing happens.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he opens his eye, rolls his head to the side to see Hades standing before him, the hook twisting slowly in his fingers, blue flames still dancing along the metallic curve.

“Where would you like it, Captain?” the god of the Underworld asks suddenly.

 _Is he really asking for ideas on where to hurt me?_ Killian only raises an eyebrow.  He doesn’t say a word.

“Perhaps your knee?” Hades offers, nudging the hook closer to his swollen leg.  Killian manages not to flinch, not to move, but how much is defiance and how much is simple exhaustion, he doesn’t even know anymore.

The flaming metal approaches his cheek, and he can feel the heat of it even inches away.  “How about your face?” the other man intones, almost bored.

Killian doesn’t react.

Hades lowers the hook until it’s just over the fresh wound on his stomach, and this time Killian can’t help the way his breathing catches in his throat ever so slightly.  “Or here would do quite nicely, don't you think?” the god grins, the blue fire growing only brighter in his hand.

 _No, no, no,_ Killian panics.   _Not there._ But he doesn’t move, can’t move.

“On second thought,” Hades drawls, pulling the glowing metal away, “how about… _here_.”

At the last word, Hades slaps the hook hard against Killian’s chest, just over his heart.  He can’t cry out, the air is trapped in his chest with the pain, hoarse grunts the only noises he can make as he thrashes weakly in his binds.  The burn seems to spread across his chest, blazing deep into his skin and muscle and igniting even his bones on fire.  Every wound in his body - new and old - protests loudly, and every part of him is screaming in agony, though he cannot.  

For a moment, he’s sure he’s going to die this time despite his already dead state, the torture just too much for him to bear.

For a moment, he welcomes it.

His body crumples in its rope-bound prison long before Hades removes the hook.  Ragged breaths and wheezing shudders shake his chest, jostling the fresh blisters beneath his shirt, but he’s too weary to notice.  His head rests limp against his shoulder, his half-open eye unable to focus on anything in the room.

It’s over, he has nothing left.  He can’t survive another round, he can’t win.

Vaguely, as if from far away, he feels Hades click the cool hook back in his brace, and it feels wrong, heavy, a weight he doesn’t want to carry anymore.  He wants to give up, he wants to let the dark fingers of sleep take him.  He wants to stop fighting, to stop hurting.

“I think I’ll leave you like that for a while,” he hears Hades say, but it’s as if the words have no meaning, it doesn’t matter anymore.  “Maybe it’ll give you a new… _perspective_ on things.  Until next time, Captain.”

Killian doesn’t react.  It’s easier not to.

He has no strength left, he barely registers the sound of Hades footsteps exiting the cell, the slam of the door behind him, taking the last of his will with him.  All this time, he’s been fighting not to lose them, not to lose _her_ , not to lose who he is in their eyes, who he tried so hard to be.  But they’re not here, they’re can’t see him struggle, and they can’t see him break.  He’s already lost them, left them behind in the realm of the living, while he’s trapped down here in this world of pain.

A tear escapes his eye, just one, but he can feel it, hot wetness trailing down the side of his face.

Down here, he is truly all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews? Comments? Hugs (for Killian or me, I'll take either at this point...)


	6. Still Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're heading into canon territory. Hang on, Killian! You can do it!

Killian doesn’t know how long he’s left tied to the wall, not quite standing but unable to fall.  He can’t rest, every motion, every _breath,_ sending ripples of pain shooting through him.  His chest burns as he tries to pull in air, his stomach wound coursing fire across his side, flayed skin at his back raw against his shirt.  Everything is pain, everything hurts, and he wants it all to end.

His head rolls forward to rest against his chest, a trickle of blood escaping from his mouth to run down his lips, dripping onto his ripped and bloodied clothes.  He groans quietly, struggles to lift his head up to rest against the wall, where it doesn’t pull at the wounds on his back, but it’s too heavy, too much effort.

He’s sure he passed out at some point, he’s sure he slept for a little while, the blood on his lips dry and crusted when he comes awake again.  He doesn’t know how he managed to ignore the racing agony throughout his burned and broken body, how he stayed asleep with the ropes tied so tightly around his limbs, but he’s grateful.  It’s not much, it’s not enough to heal him, but he’ll take it.

Some part of him wants to escape the binds, to use his hook - now coated with his dried blood - to saw through the hemp cutting into his arms, his legs, to curl up on the floor and sleep for as long as Hades will leave him alone.  Some part of him wants to defy the lord of this world of pain, to continue to goad him whatever small ways he can, his escape from the ropes sure to anger the god.

But he’s tired, and he’s weak, and he’s not sure he can withstand whatever Hades will come up with as punishment, as retribution.  And he’s angry, _furious_ at his weakness, his fear, for not being willing to stand up against the god anymore, for being too afraid of pain to stick to the defiance he wants to hold onto so badly.  He _hates_ his fear, but still he makes no move to cut the ropes that hold him up.

With more energy than he can afford to spend, he manages to raise his head, rest it heavily on the wall behind him, a tiny victory over the pain in his body.  He lets his clear eye drift shut, hoping for more rest.

For a time, he slips in and out of consciousness, not really sure if he’s awake or asleep at any given moment, the pain crashing over him anew each time he gasps back to alertness.  It’s almost not worth it, to sleep only to wake in more agony than when he drifted off.  But soon he finds he can lift his head just a little bit easier than the time before, the remaining pain after the first wave of wakefulness not quite as bad as the last one, his breathing not nearly as desperate as the previous time he woke.

He drifts hazily through consciousness, in and out, dark and light, pain and agony.  He almost doesn’t notice when the walls of the small cell begin to flicker, changing, transforming from dark stone to open air, a red hue to the world around, from an empty room to people standing before him, people he-

 _It can’t be,_ he thinks, the weight of exhaustion threatening to sever his fragile grasp on consciousness.   _It can’t be real, can't be her.  Can’t be._

But Emma’s eyes light up when she sees him, she takes a step closer toward him across the grass now beneath his feet, away from her family.  He struggles to pull his eye open, to look, to see, to see _her,_ his chest clenching in a pain that has nothing to do with the tortures he suffered.  Her mouth moves, the shape of his name on her lips, but he can’t hear, can’t-

Killian gasps as the image disappears, and the pain of losing sight of her is almost worse than everything in his broken body.  He fights to stay awake, stay conscious, to see her, one more time, just one more moment.

The walls flicker once more, his cell gone, and she’s back, she’s right there in front of him, saying something, something he can’t make out, the pain and weariness threatening to pull him away again, and he doesn’t want to leave her, can’t leave her, can’t watch her disappear again.  

 _“… find you…,”_ he thinks she says, he wants to believe she says, but can’t believe, can’t want.  She can’t be here, she _can’t_ , not in this world of pain, not in this eternal punishment he’s resigned himself to endure, not where Hades can get her, hurt her, use her against him.  

She can’t be here.

But he knows.  In a way he can’t possibly know, he _knows_.  She’s here, she’s _here_ , coming for him, for _him_ , she’s coming.

She fades away again, and he groans with the loss of her, a quiet, desperate sound of need and want and longing and something else, something he didn’t think he had left anymore.

_Hope._

He can feel it spreading through him, a warmth, a comfort, a love he thought he’d have to go without for many years more.  It fills the well of defiance he thought he’d all but emptied, sparks his will to stay strong, to fight back, to do anything his power to get away, get to her, to Emma.  She had been his lifeline, his reminder of who he was, who he can be, who he needs to be again.

 _She’s coming,_ each beat of his dead heart heart seems to sing, each pulse of the blood through his body, each throb of pain.   _She’s coming_.

“Emma,” he whispers in a soft breath, consciousness fading away too fast, too strong for him to fight right now.

He falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews? Comments? Favourite book series?


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